


In Good Company

by Chiomi



Series: Samhain [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Frottage, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-26
Updated: 2013-04-26
Packaged: 2017-12-09 12:54:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/774425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chiomi/pseuds/Chiomi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Everyone needs a hobby."<br/>"What’s yours?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Good Company

**Author's Note:**

> AlwaysBoth and I went to see Skyfall ages ago, and she talked about how in both James Bond and Supernatural, men who love their cars can't seem to manage to stay dead.
> 
> Then this happened.
> 
> AlwaysBoth also found Cailleach when I was floundering a bit on plot, so, really, everything is her fault.
> 
> Beta also by AlwaysBoth.

Convincing the Alpha pack that Beacon Hills would be stable and that no, really, Derek did not want to join their club, no matter how cool the merit badges were took most of the summer, and the thing with the pixies made the Labour Day camping trip way more dangerous and glittery than expected, and beating off (no, not that way) the pack who wanted to move in took most of the rest of September, so by the end of the month Stiles is not really where he wants to be in his AP Physics class, and barely understands any of his own notes. All he wants is to kidnap Boyd to a quiet place to pick his brain, because Boyd took it last year and Stiles knows because of reasons that he got a 5 on the test, but Derek is leaning on the Camaro and glaring when Stiles waylays Boyd on the way out of school, so Stiles switches focus. His focus somehow ends up on Derek a lot these days.

“Look, can’t studying be pack bonding? I know you were plotting pizza and lurking in condemned buildings, but getting into university can’t actually be worse.”

Derek’s doing that glaring thing again. “The pizza was secondary to talking about the things that are trying to kill us.”

“What, again?” Stiles flings his arms out wide to convey how very unfair the whole thing is. Which it really, really is. Every time something is trying to kill them, something gets ripped out of his Jeep, and it is not cheap keeping his baby running. He’s taking auto shop this semester, but nothing’s allowed to take claws to Calliope until he knows how to put her the fuck back together himself.

“Yes,” he says, all aggrieved and like Stiles should be used to people trying to kill all of them.

“Dammit,” Stiles says, and deflates. “Well, we’re studying a bit anyway, okay? I need Boyd’s brain like burning.” He needs his grades to be fine at midterms, because his dad is still mostly just giving him sad looks and working long shifts since the whole assaulting-an-Alpha-in-public thing that he’s never been able to explain adequately. The only saving grace in that had been that his dad had no way of knowing that the assault had involved getting kind of a lot of wolfsbane into the Alpha, and it had been a death sentence. He just needs to have one thing, just one thing, that he can do to not disappoint his father.

“Seven thirty. Bring Scott and Allison,” is all Derek says, and then he’s gone.

Stiles sighs and digs his keys out. He needs to drive home and do his homework and grab the widest-ranging books he has just in case he needs to do sudden research. Scott’s working today, so at least he doesn’t need to wait for him to be done macking on Allison before Stiles can leave. It’s just him and the purr of Calliope’s engine. Maybe not purr. Kind of more growl, only without any menace or threat of fast acceleration. It’s loud, okay? He’s planning to look into it once he knows what he’s doing a little bit more, but Jeeps are always loud.

His isn’t quite loud enough to muffle the sound of the truck behind him as it accelerates right for him, comes up beside him, and starts trying to force him off the road. It’s total bullshit, and they are obviously insane, but the preserve isn’t thickly treed here, so Stiles just goes where they’re sending him. Douchebags don’t realize that his baby is an offroad vehicle, and he’s more than capable of keeping control of the steering wheel as he tries to keep up over the rough ground. He grabs for his phone and brings it up to take a picture or video or anything he can, and, wow, the passenger is being super-cooperative and he’s going to get a mug shot, too, a clear shot of the dude’s face and also the gun he is bringing up to aim and fire.

Stiles stomps on his brakes so hard that Calliope makes harsh stuttering noises and then dies shortly after coming to a complete stop. He takes a minute to freak out as he goes over the video again, and pauses it: yep, clear view of the license plate. He should call it in, report it, let his dad handle it.

He sets his jaw and starts his car and flings the phone to the passenger seat. He’ll look it up himself from home.

**

The short version is that they’re hunters. You can tell by the fact that the plates belong to a small sedan, not a truck, and also by the fact that when they shot Scott in the woods he started getting aconite poisoning immediately. It’s the little things.

They apparently tracked an omega into town, and they’re not inclined to leave now that they’ve caught the scent of a real pack. Stiles has called Chris Argent three times, but he hasn’t picked up, and Stiles is pretty sure it’s because Mr. Argent just wants plausible deniability when they’re all dead. Or maybe he and Allison are in the woods, too. Stiles hasn’t seen any flares go off, but he’s been running a while, and maybe in the opposite direction.

One of the stupid fucks is on his tail, too, like he doesn’t know that a werewolf would be long gone by now. He’s shooting, and Stiles knows that at this point it’s blind luck that none of them have hit him yet.

His luck runs out about the same time Calliope comes into view. It’s his side, first, and his run turns into more of a gasping shamble as he clutches where he’s been fucking shot, where he’s going to need medical attention, where it’s going to take forever to heal, because he’s not a werewolf.

Next it’s his back, high up and to the left. Then it’s a bunch of other places, and it feels like everywhere, because every part of him hurts and he’s fading to pinpricks of pain and he’s bleeding, fuck, he’s bleeding a lot, and he can’t breathe.

This is going to kill his dad.

***

He can’t breathe. His first reflexive breath had brought in dirt, so he’s been trying not to try again as he scrabbles for the surface.

His lungs are burning from holding his breath, and he’s seeing white spots in the corners of his not-vision, but Stiles keeps pushing, keeps digging, keeps trying to get free, because he can’t die like this. That sets off something in his head that tastes like blood and fire, but nope, he’s not thinking about it, he’s focusing on surviving.

The dirt gives way: he can feel it crumbling away from his hand, and the burst of relieved adrenaline that spikes through him sends him to the surface, gasping in the clear air of morning. Stiles feels like shit, so he just kind of flops over and breathes. He’s not where he - oh, look, there’s a flower - asphodel, he thinks, but that’s usually planted on purpose. He reaches out to grab it so he can yank it out of the ground. The roots look suspiciously like rope. He keeps pulling. It’s rope.

His throat is tight. It’s been over a year, but he remembers the last time he saw a rope like this. He keeps pulling, and it comes up in a spiral around him, disturbing little chunks of earth. He’d sit here and contemplate why he was buried in the ground like Laura but that - nope, we’re thinking about other things, like how hungry he is, like he hasn’t eaten in a month.

He’s somewhere deep in the woods, but he has to be somewhere close to the wreck of the Hale house. The surety of that is accompanied by shame, but Stiles is not doing this right now, right now he is on a quest for food and then a shower. It is an epic quest. There will probably be dragons, which he will slay and proceed to barbecue.

He wants Calliope, so he doesn’t have to walk anymore. He checks his pockets for his keys, his phone, and both are missing, so he steels himself and starts walking downhill, because it’s easier and that’s the way the road should be.

He reaches the road after some time has passed, when it’s getting pressing that he feels super dehydrated as well as hungry. He tries to orient himself, and trudges in the direction he’s pretty sure is town. Someone’ll come along, because it’s just early afternoon and someone has to come along eventually. A station wagon goes past, doesn’t stop or even slow. Stiles flips them off desultorily and keeps going. It’s not like he has any other choice.

A big red SUV roars up the road, and Stiles raises a hand in a wave so that at least when Mr Argent leaves him stranded here, he’ll know there was a witness to his assholery. The SUV screeches to a stop next to him. The window rolls down. “Stiles?” he says incredulously.

“Hey.” Stiles gives an awkward two-fingered salute. “Think I could get a ride back into town? I don’t know where my keys are. Or my Jeep.”

“Of course,” he says. “Hop in.”

Stiles darts across the road and around the SUV and pulls the passenger door open. “Sorry, I’m going to get dirt all over everything.” He’s in and the door is closed and he’s yanking on his seatbelt when he realizes. “Oh. Are you going to shoot me?”

Chris holds the gun steady on Stiles as he accelerates the SUV again, heading into town. “That depends. What are you?”

“It’s Stiles. Stie-uhls. I go to school with your daughter? Dad’s the Sheriff? Sheriff who’ll be really unhappy if you put holes in me?” Stiles holds his hands up in the air, though it wasn’t like he could be reaching for a weapon anyway, since he didn’t even have his keys.

“No, I helped bury Stiles a month ago. So I don’t know what you are, but we’re going to find out.”

Stiles stays quiet on the rest of the drive. There’s no alternate explanation to proffer, nothing to say. It’s a sick punch to the gut that he’s been dead a month. It felt like longer.

No, he’s not thinking about that. He did not bring any feelings back with him.

At the first red light, Chris takes his hand from the steering wheel and presses one of the buttons on the overhead dash. “Call home,” he says. The sound of a ringing phone chimes through the car.

Allison picks up. “Hello?”

“Hi, honey,” Chris says, eyes on the road. “I’m bringing home some kind of monster that looks like Stiles. Have Justin set up the basement for testing and meet me in the garage with your crossbow.”

Allison makes a shocked, broken sound, then says, “Okay.”

The connection goes dead. Stiles demands, “Is this really necessary?”

Chris bares his teeth in what could almost be taken for a smile. He doesn’t say anything.

When the garage door on the Argent house rolls open, Allison is there waiting, pale and armed, a crossbow bolt aimed squarely at the passenger door. “Open the door slowly,” Chris instructs.

Stiles sighs and does as he’s told. Allison moves towards the back of the SUV and keeps the crossbow trained on him as he gets out.

“Seriously, still just Stiles,” he says, even as he obediently treks downstairs. The basement is a viscerally unpleasant memory, but he’s had worse, now, and he can cope just fine. At least there aren’t any werewolves chained to the ceiling this time, just a chair in the middle of a red circle on the floor. “Is that a Devil’s Trap? Is Supernatural real? Are you guys, like, distant Winchester cousins? Oh, no, I guess you couldn’t be, no one’s come back to life except Gerard and I really think it’s just because Scott has terrible plans and can’t really kill anyone. Anything that involves drugging someone and then using Derek like that is a bad plan, right, Allison?”

Her eyes are hard and bright. “Just sit down, Stiles.”

He steps forward, sits, because she’s still armed.

Another man, maybe mid-thirties, takes a handful of what Stiles recognizes as mountain ash and closes the other circle on the floor.

“Guys? Isn’t this kind of excessive?”

“It’s really not,” Chris contradicts. He grabs a bottle from the table of frightening implements and lobs it at him. “Holy water. Pour that on your skin.”

Stiles looks at it longingly. He’s spectacularly thirsty. “Can I just drink it?”

Chris hesitates, and Allison looks at him. “Yes.”

Stiles chugs it, which serves the dual purpose of making him feel less on the verge of just turning into parchment and dust and proving that he’s not - whatever they think would be hurt by holy water. A demon? Can they actually think he’s a demon? Stiles looks at the red chalk on the ground and sighs. “Next? Do I need to like cut myself with a silver knife or something? And is there any way we can skip shooting me with wolfsbane? Because those things are still bullets, man.”

They end up skipping the wolfsbane bullets, but it’s still over an hour spent uncomfortably in the basement as they test him.

When they’re done, satisfied that he’s human, Chris looks at him like he doesn’t know what to do with him. “Can I go home now?” Stiles asks, beyond exhausted.

“Yes. Justin will take you.” Chris throws Justin a set of keys, and they all watch as Stiles steps free of the circles.

Stiles rolls his eyes at them and starts up the stairs. It makes the nape of his neck itch, to show them his back, but he just wants a cheeseburger and a fucking shower. And then another cheeseburger, and a reasonably sized mountain of curly fries. Also to check on his car, because if he’s been gone a month, his dad probably won’t have done anything with her.

Justin drives a green SUV, because the Argents aren’t particularly imaginative. “Do you know what you’re going to say?”

“I’m going to say the hunters who shot me kidnapped me. They deserve fucking jail time.”

“Uh,” he says. “The taller one is dead.”

It takes Stiles a beat, but then, yeah, of course he is. The taller one was the one who’d shot him, and Scott wouldn’t have let that slide. “Okay. I can work with that. Don’t worry, I’m not freaking likely to tell him what really happened.”

“You know we had to check, right?” Justin sounds weirdly nervous. Stiles isn’t used to having extended conversations with the henchmen of the week. He’s usually yelling at Chris directly.

“Whatever, dude.” He stares out the window and jiggles his leg until they pull up in front of the house, and then he’s out of the SUV like a shot. The spare key is in a particularly unsubtle fake rock, because it’s the Sheriff’s house and no one is quite that stupid, and he lets himself inside and locks the door without replacing the key.

His first stop is the kitchen, where he fills a glass with water and drains it, fills it again and drinks half of it because he starts to feel like he's sloshing. Theoretically he should go slow, rehydrate at a steady pace so that he doesn't throw up. But he doesn't feel like he's going to throw up, he feels fine and just kind of starving as he pulls open the fridge.

That stops him, stills him, makes him feel ill. There's hardly anything in there but condiments and beer. He clenches his jaw and controls his breathing and opens the freezer. It's got a handful of frozen dinners in it, and he grabs one of those and follows the directions and starts it in the microwave. Then it's either wait eight minutes or try to shower in eight minutes, and it's a hard decision, but he's ridiculously filthy and leaving a bit of a trail of dust on the floor. Shower it is, then.

He takes the stairs two at a time, already stripping off his shirts. He's going to have to vacuum everything later anyway. Stiles drops the shirts and then his pants on the bathroom floor, and steps into the shower. He doesn't have that long, not as long as he'd like, but it's enough to soap up and wash until the water runs clear. He has a scar on his chest that he didn't the last time he saw himself shirtless, but he can't think about it now, he doesn't have the time.

The microwave dings as he steps out of the shower, and Stiles just wraps a towel around himself before heading back downstairs. Food is singing a delicious siren song of overheated plastic and soggy corn.

He’s finishing the weird brownie-thing it comes with and contemplating whether making another one or having another shower or finding his dad or checking on his Jeep or getting dressed is a higher priority when the door opens. He didn’t hear anyone knock, and his dad usually comes right in, so Stiles shoves the rest of the brownie in his mouth and takes the couple steps to the hallway to get a look at the door. It’s his dad and one of his deputies, someone new whose name he doesn’t know, doing the cop-sneak that he only knows from police procedurals.

All parties involved freeze in confusion. Stiles asks, around the brownie, “Dad?”

His dad, hands shaking, stands and holsters the gun and grabs Stiles in a bone-crushing hug.

It’s all very confusing for the next few minutes, as his dad issues orders to report in that it wasn’t a break-in and demands to know where Stiles has been and says to cancel the missing person’s report and the Amber Alert and tells Stiles he’s grounded forever and Stiles just clings and clings because he’s not dead and his dad is here and his dad doesn’t know, can’t know, but his dad still loves him and so everything’s okay.

One of the neighbours had called in about a break-in at the Sheriff’s house, his dad explains, before saying, “No more questions from you, kid. Where the hell have you been? What happened?”

He prods at the scar - scars - on Stiles chest, and it’s not just the exit wound from a bullet that he’s seeing, it’s the scars from a summer of running around with werewolves and the little white marks on one shoulder where a pixie bit him, and so Stiles has to start spinning his story about being kidnapped. He doesn’t think he’s doing a very good job selling it, but he loses the thread completely when he hears someone moving on the porch.

He’s not a werewolf, he’ll never be a werewolf if he can help it, but he’s listened to Derek shout at everyone about using their senses for months, and he stills and tries to pay attention, because what if it’s a hunter? When he realizes his dad is looking at him, and his eyes are sad, Stiles tries to remember what he’d been saying, tries to figure out what his face is doing, and only relaxes when the deputy steps fully into the living room.

His dad looks at the deputy, then back at Stiles, and then suggests that Stiles get a good night’s rest and then come in and talk to a sketch artist. Stiles acquiesces, finds out that his dad’s on a double and will be back at nine in the morning, and says he’ll get up early and go shopping, so Dad had better enjoy his last night of junk food. He goes up, finally, to his room. It’s as he left it, almost.

His phone is on his bedside table, and he checks it. Dead battery, of course. He plugs it in to charge while he gets dressed: jeans, shirt, flannel. He’s tired, but he hasn’t seen everyone, hasn’t checked up on everything, and who knows if Allison will have told anyone anything.

He’s booting up his computer to check his email, check Facebook, when his window slides open and Scott tumbles in, a mess of mud and blood and wide-eyed shock. “Dude. Dude! You’re - oh my God, Derek said - but - you don’t want brains, right? Please tell me you don’t want brains.”

Stiles grins at him. “Nope, not a zombie.”

Scott tackles him, and the only reason they don’t go to the floor in a flurry of pain and chair is that Scott’s got werewolf reflexes. They end up on the floor while the chair spins gently above them, and Scott inhales at his neck rather frantically. “You don’t even smell dead! Dude, Stiles, I - how?”

“No idea. And speaking of smelling dead, what the hell are you covered in?”

Scott glances down, shrugs. “Zombie bits. We had a weird Hallowe’en.”

Stiles twitches and hits him on the shoulder. “Zombies? Really?”

“They’re, like, super hard to kill. Oh my God, I’m so glad you’re yourself.” Scott settles back, ends up with a knee in Stiles’ stomach, and finally gets off him completely. “How, though?”

Stiles shrugs uncomfortably, doesn’t want to think of the possibility of himself mindless and violent. “No idea. I just woke up and clawed my way out of the ground - by the way, seriously? Burying me in the woods?”

Scott looks down, looks at where he used to have a bullet hole through him, even though it’s covered, and says, “Yeah. We didn’t want to have to explain to your dad. Peter dug out this whole ceremony for burying human pack members while Derek went and killed the hunter who shot you and then we had this whole thing. Erica cried.”

Stiles snorts. “Really? I would’ve thought it would ruin her eyeliner.”

Scott punches him, werewolf strength behind it. “You were dead. Don’t even joke about it. It doesn’t matter what weird pretending-not-to-care thing you two have going on, you were dead. We had to bury your body. I cried, too, because my best friend was dead.”

Stiles rubs his chest. He knows it’ll bruise. Then he grabs Scott in a hug, because what else can you do? At least his dad hadn’t had to mourn. “So are all the zombies dead, then?”

“No. Peter says they’ll be coming out of the cemetery when the sun goes down.” He brightens. “Hey! You could contain them. Lydia still can’t get mountain ash to work. If they were all stuck in the graveyard, the person who made them would have to come investigate and we could take them out.”

“No rest for the wicked, huh?”

Stiles knows it was the wrong thing to stay when Scott stills. Scott’s usually pretty dependable for not noticing anything but Allison, but he’s insightful when it’s least helpful to anyone. He looks contemplative right now, and sad, and fuck. Stiles scrambles to his feet. 

“Come on, let’s get Calliope. I’ve been away from her too long.” He swipes his keys, runs a hand over hair that’s as short as it was before - before. “We can get mountain ash from Deaton, right?”

They’re going down the stairs, and Stiles is considering a detour into the kitchen, when it occurs to him, “Why isn’t Deaton doing your magic circle?”

Scott blank-faces him. “He’s not pack. I didn’t ask.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “That’s it. I’m apparently back from the grave to teach you about resource management.”

Scott slings an arm around his shoulder and drags him out the door. “Okay,” he says equably. “As long as you stay around.”

Calliope’s sitting in the driveway, and he takes the time to run a hand along her hood as he walks around to the driver’s side. He’s missed her. If they manage to get through the night without her getting maimed, he’s going to, like, wax her. Yeah. She deserves a little babying.

Stiles drives carefully, because it’s nice to be back, and they’ve got a couple hours before dark. He parks in front, because it’s during open hours for once, and the two of them go inside. “Doctor Deaton!” Scott shouts. “Guess who’s back!”

The vet emerges from the back with a tablet in hand, and pauses. “Stiles. You’re looking well.”

Stiles shoves his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. “So I’ve been told. Scott suggested you might have some mountain ash?”

“Yes. Come on back.” Deaton makes no move to open the gate.

Stiles smirks, because it’s such a Deaton kind of test, and pushes back into the employee area. It tingles a little.

Deaton, for some reason, has a 50 pound dog food bag that’s full of mountain ash, just because. Scott loads it into Calliope, even though Stiles is the one who’ll have to carry it the circumference of the graveyard. It doesn’t look like enough to go the whole distance, but Stiles learned about that when the alpha pack was in town and he encircled his whole house with just an icing bag. He flexes his fingers and remembers scrabbling in the dirt and wonders whether it’ll be easier or harder, now.

As Stiles is heading out the door, Deaton clears his throat meaningfully. Stiles looks at him.

“True returns to life are not without price. You might find it interesting to discover who paid yours.”

Stiles just says, “Yeah,” and goes, because he’s been trying not to think about that. Peter’s resurrection had involved a whole lot of non-consent and brainwashing and drugging people, and Stiles really, vehemently hopes that he didn’t accidentally do the same.

When he meets Scott in the parking lot, Scott asks, “What was that about?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Stiles says. “Let’s do this thing.”

He starts the Jeep, grateful that it’s too loud for comfortable conversation. It doesn’t usually stop him, but he doesn’t want to explain anything. He parks the Jeep a couple blocks from the entrance to the cemetery, because he’ll be damned (again) if she gets damaged (again).

Hefting the bag isn’t exactly easy, but he props it on one shoulder and rips at the corner. He’ll end up covered in the stuff, but showering extensively was part of his plan for later tonight anyway. Belief is a weapon, and he brings it to bear now with iron-hard knowledge that this dust will hold back whatever’s coming.

Scott trails behind him, to guard him or just because he’s happy Stiles’ is alive. Doesn’t really matter which, Stiles thinks.

It’s a big graveyard, but they have plenty of time, so Stiles keeps to a steady pace and fantasizes a little about curly fries. The frozen dinner earlier barely put a dent in his appetite. When there’s only about a mile to go, and Stiles can see the weathered Gold Rush-era headstones through the fence, he sends Scott for cheeseburgers and curly fries. There’s still plenty of light, and they haven’t seen even a hint of zombie.

He finishes the circle without incident, and can feel the snap of power as it closes. The sensation’s stronger than it ever was before, but he’s not sure whether it’s because he’s starting to be practiced at this or because of the whole undead thing. Either way, he’s done and Scott’s not back yet, so he puts the remains of the bag of ash in the Jeep and brushes off the worst of it and wanders towards the entrance.

He’s not even trying to move quietly, so it’s not a surprise that the werewolves massed in front of the gates are turned to face him when he approaches.

Derek’s white as a sheet, haunted-looking, and Stiles deflates. He hadn’t quite been hoping for a big, sweeping slow-motion reunion, but Derek looking at him like he’d rather Stiles never came back at all is still a kick in the teeth.

Stiles raises a hand in a casual wave, and Erica shrieks and sprints for him. “You’re alive!”

He stops walking and braces himself, but there’s really no adequate way to brace against an exuberant werewolf who wants to hug you and pick you up like you are a Disney princess and twirl you around. Stiles gives up and wraps his arms around Erica’s shoulders and buries his face in her hair. “It’s good to see you, too.”

She lifts her face from the crook of his neck and starts tugging him to where the group of them are gathered, faces ranging from wary to hopeful. “Faculties still intact, guys,” he says in a conversational tone, because they can all hear him just fine. “And even if I was after brains, you’d all be safe. Well, except for Boyd. I’d probably still kill to get his AP scores, but I’m pretty sure that’s not evil magic talking.”

Boyd cracks a smile, and Isaac’s grinning crookedly. Peter just looks amused, and Derek still looks wrecked. Well, screw him for being a crabby bastard. Peter looks at Derek, then says, “Stiles, I’ll have to get you a leather jacket like mine. It’s a very exclusive club we’re in.”

Derek pulls an even crankier face.

“Yeah, thanks for the thought, Peter, but no. Really no. If I’m suddenly required to wear leather, I’d much rather one of those bustier’s the leather twins are sporting. How much longer do we have to wait for the zombies to show up?”

“Another twenty minutes,” Isaac says.

“They could come at any time,” Derek snaps. “The ones this morning -”

“Sunset’s in fifteen minutes,” interrupts Boyd. “The documentation suggests they’ll come out right after that, because they’ll be stronger than in daylight.”

“Look who got research pants!”

Boyd raises an eyebrow. “You were dead,” he says flatly.

Awkward silence descends, and isn’t broken until Scott comes bounding up, holding a bag from the diner.

“Scott,” Derek says, jaw clenched and eyes still on Stiles like they’re stuck there or Stiles is a threat that needs watching, “you were supposed to check on him and then report back.”

Scott looks wounded, but he relinquishes Stiles’ food before he answers Derek. “But he was there! And alive, and not mindless, and I thought he could help.”

Stiles has half a cheeseburger in his mouth when he asks, “Wait, you thought I’d be back the same way as the other zombies?”

Derek finally looks away from him, dropping his gaze.

“It takes serious magic to come back whole,” Peter says.

There’s no more time for discussion, then, because there are noises coming from the graveyard. These zombies are all rising with far more grace than Stiles did, punching through dirt with strength that looks more than human.

It hits, suddenly, that this is going to be absolutely horrible. His mom is in there.

The first of them shamble to the gate, and the werewolves all shift. The mountain ash does its job, though, and all the zombies stop at the line. They mill around in confusion. 

One of the figures moving forward catches Stiles’ eye, because she’s all in red and moving with purpose. She wends her way through the zombies without fear, and comes to the line of mountain ash. She looks down at it, a swing of dark hair obscuring her face, and then up and unerringly at Stiles. It’s Ms. Morell, but her habitual calm is cracked and jagged. “Looks like you haven’t been playing truant from all of your studies.”

She smiles, and gestures at the zombies around her. “They’re my children, you know. I tried and tried, but my body wouldn’t give me one, so I made my own. I tried for hundreds of years! And then one of you children creates new life unknowing, works magic and hates it, and why can’t I do that, when I’ll love them and treat them as my own.”

Morell takes an old woman’s chin in her hand, and kisses her forehead. “So I made them, and they’re beautiful, aren’t they? And so resilient. They just have particular dietary needs, so you’re going to break your little circle and stay out of the way.”

“Yeah, no,” Stiles says. “And have you ever considered adoption?”

Her smile slips away, and she presses a hand up against the perimeter. Stiles can feel it, in a visceral unpleasant way that isn’t entirely haptic. The line holds, and her expression twists even more unpleasantly. “You can’t hold us here forever, not my blood and bone and magic.”

“Uh, apparently I can,” Stiles says.

“And he’s far from alone if he can’t,” says Peter, cool and aloof.

She presses again, and harder, and it’s not fair, that this isn’t something he knows how to brace himself for. Stiles knows better than to expect fair, though, and digs in his heels quite literally, because he will not be moved.

One of the zombies who moves forward is smaller, small like a child, and Peter makes a horrible soft noise and Derek growls menacingly. The werewolves all shift to more aggressive postures, range themselves more obviously along the entrance. They seem to be waiting for Stiles to fail and the ash to dissipate, which, wow, yeah, touching show of faith, here.

There’s a rumble like thunder, like a voracious storm come to devour them. Derek glances up and away, looking for the stormclouds, but the sky’s clear, blue shading uninterrupted to the fading flames of sunset.

A figure emerges from the depths of the graveyard, moving with purpose and wending its way through the zombies. It comes to the front, and resolves into an old, old woman, not so much wrinkled as cragged. She doesn’t so much as glance at Morell, but looks down at the line of mountain ash, and says, “Well done, Gwalchmei.”

She steps over the line, and power ripples from her.

Stiles croaks, “Thank you,” and tries not to piss his pants in fear.

Derek sinks to his knees, claws still out, a look on his face half worship and half fear, like he’s seen the face of some particularly vengeful God. “Sentainne,” he says, and his voice is wrecked.

The other werewolves sink to their knees, too, even Scott after a swat from Erica. The woman looks over them, and almost smiles, and it’s a sad, sad smile. She cups Derek’s face in both her hands, and Stiles half-expects him to turn to dust or have his eyeballs explode or something, but she just presses a kiss to his forehead, like Morell had with her pet zombie, and says, “None of my children are unworthy, not of this. Your prayers were answered, and could not have been answered without first being asked.”

Derek’s eyes flick to Stiles, and oh. Oh. They’re going to talk about this later.

The woman looks back at Morell, and says, “This won’t stand.”

“But they do! It’s not fair that I alone cannot create.”

The zombies are getting agitated along with Morell, clawing at the barrier. Stiles wills and believes as hard as he can, because they’re terrifying.

“Gwalchmei,” the old woman says, in an unnerving shift of focus. “Your wolf prayed to me for you, that you would be okay. That wouldn’t have been enough, though, not on its own. Do you understand?”

It takes super-freaking-human effort, but Stiles manages to not babble about synergy. “None of us are anything on our own. Dust in the wind, candles . . . also in the wind.”

Some of the crags on her face rearrange into something that could be a smile. “Yes. Now hold your ground.”

He wonders wildly if it means the zombies are about to get out but then, no, he’s not that lucky. The earth shakes beneath them, and Stiles wills the mountain ash to stay, and hopes it desperately. His stomach rolls, because he’s never liked earthquakes, never liked the feeling that the ground was suddenly undependable, that it was rejecting him and he was rootless. The ground in the graveyard seems to be shaking more violently than out. “Really?” Stiles demands, panting from the effort of belief.

“No,” snarls Morell, clutching at the arm of one of the zombies. They’re . . . they’re sinking, the restless earth swallowing them. The air around her brightens, and resolves into ball lightning.

It zips around, lighting up the faces of the zombies and dive-bombing the circle of mountain ash.

It does nothing, though, and the earth continues to rumble. The wolves are all knuckles-to-the-ground now, and Stiles wonders distantly how he’s still standing.

A car door slams behind them, and Stiles spares a glance: it’s Lydia, a miracle in high heels, striding towards them angrily. “I did not sign up for this shit,” she shouts.

It starts raining, even though the sky’s still clear overhead. Where it falls inside the circle, it hits ball lightning as often as not, and hisses electrically. Any zombies standing too close start to crumple, and the earth swallows them whole.

Stiles swallows hard and does his part as Morell starts to shriek and Lydia and the other woman stare her down. He’s a supporting actor here at best, and he’d really kind of like to edge away from this trio of women leaking power, but he’s doing something, and he can’t leave the werewolves.

The zombies disappear into the ground, and the lightning winks out, plunging them all into darkness. Stiles sags, because there’s no more pressure on the barrier. He’s pretty sure the ash goes inert, but can’t bring himself to care. He’s sweating and damp and feels like the inside of his head has been scrubbed raw. He can hear Morell sobbing in the graveyard.

“I can’t undo what’s been done,” says the old woman in the dark. “But if you don’t want this role, there are other options.”

“I don’t want it,” Lydia says, sure and hard. “What do I have to do?”

“Lydia?” Jackson asks.

“Nothing,” the woman says. “But you can use it to buy something, if you wish.”

“Fine. Nine years - three threes - of no hostile supernatural creatures able to enter Beacon Hills or Hale territory.”

“Mm. That’s a long time.”

“I know what I’m turning down,” Lydia says.

Stiles feels like he should be tracking this conversation, but also like if he does he’ll end up gibbering in the dirt. So he lets himself fall onto his back and stares up at the sky. It’s no longer raining, and some of the stars are visible.

“Very well. Consider it done. I’ll take my sister home now.”

There’s silence like absence, and Stiles knows they’re gone. He hauls himself upright, because if no one’s dying, he needs a shower.

“So I just saved all your asses,” Lydia says. “Who’s buying me a milkshake?”

“Nice to see you, too, Lydia,” Stiles says.

“Yes, you’re back from the dead. Good for you. Now try not to die again, because it’s very irritating.”

Stiles laughs until his view of the stars is obliterated. Derek’s looming over him, offering a hand to pull him up. Derek drops his hand when Stiles is upright, but Stiles grabs his wrist. They need to have a conversation. “Go home,” Derek orders over his shoulder. “I’ll meet you there.”

“C’mon,” Stiles says, “my Jeep is this way.”

“I - okay,” Derek says, and follows where Stiles leads.

As they walk, Stiles says, casual as he can, “So you prayed for me to your terrifying goddess?”

Derek clears his throat. “The Cailleach Bheara. She looks after wolves, and the dead. I just - it didn’t seem like it could hurt, to hope that you were okay.”

“You buried me like a wolf.”

Derek pulls his wrist free. “No.”

“No?” Stiles asks, and raises an eyebrow, because he knows Derek can see it.

“I shouldn’t have, but you don’t get to mock me for this. Just - not this.”

They’ve reached the Jeep, and Stiles leans against it and grabs Derek’s wrist again, pulling him in. “I’m not mocking you. Jesus, I wouldn’t mock you for that.”

Derek stands in his space, but makes no move to actually touch him. Stiles can feel the heat off him, but he can’t touch, shouldn’t touch, not yet. They need to be on the same page. “I was in Hell,” he says quietly, and he never meant to say it out loud, but it doesn’t hurt, saying it to Derek.

Derek makes a small noise, and his arms come up to rest on the Jeep on either side of Stiles, bracketing him and keeping the world out. They’re still not touching.

“You got me out, but this isn’t gratitude,” he says, and leans forward to kiss Derek.

Derek kisses back, closes the distance between them so they’re hip to hip, and then leans back. “You’re sure? I can’t - I couldn’t -”

“I’m sure,” Stiles interrupts, and gets his hands under Derek’s jacket. His skin is smooth and warm and Stiles wants his hands all over it, but they’re standing against his Jeep next to a cemetery. Stiles nips Derek’s lower lip and slides his tongue into his mouth, and it’s surreal how good that feels. Derek sucks on his tongue, once, hard enough to ride the edge of pain. It gets Stiles completely hard, and he presses forward against Derek and finds that he is, too. Their cocks line up, and it’s too much friction, because they’re both wearing jeans, but Derek rolls his hips and presses Stiles back into the Jeep and wow, yeah, okay, friction is really, really hot.

Stiles buries his fingers in Derek’s hair, which is damp from the rain and still stiff from product, but that doesn’t matter because when he grabs just a bit too tight, Derek’s hips stutter against his. He pulls harder, and tips Derek’s head back, and licks down his jaw to his neck and then just bites. Derek makes a high noise in his throat, and just like that, Stiles is done.

He gasps as he comes in his pants, and Derek’s mouth comes to cover his again, licking in desperately, and Stiles has barely started his slide towards bonelessness when he can feel Derek’s cock twitching against him and Derek shudders all over.

They’re both breathing hard, still tucked together so they’re breathing each other’s air. “Don’t die on me again,” Derek orders.

Stiles smiles a little goofily at him. “Yeah.”


End file.
